


Anything You Can Master

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accurate Descriptions of Crime Scenes, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia Martin, Crimes & Criminals, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, High Speed Chases, Hurt/Comfort, Kanima Jackson Whittemore, M/M, Magic-Users, Multi, Murder Mystery, Protective Derek, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tech Wiz Danny, Thriller, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Very Cool Suits, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Criminal Justice Graduate student Stiles believes in the conspiracy of Werewolves, obsessively blogs, writes, and even reads books on the matter by an anonymous author, Dr. D.Stiles’ friends, Scott, Allison, and Isaac don’t believe him, but Kira indulges in all the conspiracy podcasts and documentaries, giving them a special bond.Stiles’ obsessive nature over Werewolves developed when he began to think Werewolves or Werewolf hunters had something to do with a local serial killer known as the Beacon Hills Bisector, who used to use his hometown as a dumping ground.Despite no evidence, Stiles believes the Beacon Hills Bisector killed his mother years before, and then the serial killings suddenly stopped. The Bisector Case went cold.After years of keeping off the radar, the Bisector resurfaces, and Stiles finds himself thrust into the world of the supernatural. Stiles finally has hope that with the (begrudging) help of Special Agent Hale, he’ll be able to find justice for his mother.





	1. Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is going to get gruesome! Please read carefully! There are very real descriptions of violent crimes, there will be reference to semi-canonical trauma for specific characters, but trigger warnings will ALWAYS be in the beginning notes, with an appropriate place to stop/start reading at to avoid triggering material, with any missed important details in bottom notes.

**I have seen what man can do,**

**When the evil lives inside of you.**

**Many are the weak,**

**And the strong are few,**

**But with the water,**

**We'll start anew.**

**Won’t you take me down to the levy,**

**Take me down to the stream,**

**Take me down to the water,**

**We're gonna wash our souls clean.**

**Take me down to the river,**

**Take me down to the lake,**

**Yes, we'll all go together,**

**We're gonna do it for the good Lord's sake**

**I have fallen so many times,**

**For the Devil's sweet, cunning rhymes.**

**This old world,**

**Has brought me pain,**

**But there's hope,**

**For me again.**

**Well, won't you take me down to the levy,**

**Take me down to the stream,**

**Take my down to the water,**

**We're gonna wash our souls clean,**

**Take me down to the river,**

**Take me down to the lake,**

**Yes, we'll all go together,**

**We're gonna do it for the good Lord's sake**

**Tried my hand at the bible,**

**Tried my hand at prayer,**

**But now nothing but the water…**

**Is gonna bring my soul to bare.**

**But now nothing but the water…**

**Is gonna bring my soul to bare.**

**NOTHING BUT THE WATER – Grace Potters and the Nocturnals**

 

 

* * *

 “ _When one does not love the impossible, one does not love anything._ ” **— Antonio Porchia, from** _ **Voices** _

* * *

  **Song for this Chapter:** “ _Far From Any Road_ ,” by The Handsome Family

* * *

 

 

“He knows that playing the news on two different streams isn’t going to give him double the information, right?”

Scott smiles, crosses his arms, and looks at Isaac as he explains, “he knows. He’s streaming one slightly slower than the other – it helps him take notes, somehow.”

The campus library has specific rooms for study groups that can comfortably fit up to ten people, which Scott, Stiles, and Isaac are occupying one of. There are PC's installed in the rooms that take forever to load, one of which Stiles is allowing MSNBC's grainy coverage to stream from, while CNN's report is coming from his laptop, and his phone is open to a live Twitter stream as he scribbles anxiously at the table. He glances to and fro, between all the screens, and papers in front of him that he's taking fevered notes on (from afar, it looks like a spider's web of highlighted lines, underlined, bolded scratchings of a madman), he's chewing a pen into an unrecognizable shape, and entirely enraptured by the incoming news.

It makes Isaac uneasy.

“Yeaaahhh, I was about to ask about that –"

“Stiles has been following the Beacon Hills Bisector case since he was like… ten-ish. I think," Scott explains, "This is a big deal for him.”

Nodding, Isaac asks, as delicately as he can, “and does this have anything to do with his thing about Werewolves?”

“This has everything to do with his thing about Werewolves.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah," Scott says with a slight laugh, "Stiles is pretty sure the Beacon Hills Bisector is actually a Werewolf hunter, and that all his victims have been Werewolves."

Isaac side-eyes Scott, and Scott shrugs, “you want a better explanation, ask him –"

Scott hardly has the words out before Stiles interrupts, not turning around to face them, “listen, okay, there are four ways to kill a Werewolf; drown them, but that takes forever, burn them to death, but you gotta be a good hunter and trapper to ensure they'll die from it, behead them, or cut them in half, but for modern hunters, it's generally understood that to kill a Werewolf _for sure_ , you gotta cut them in half _or_ behead them – the Beacon Hills Bisector’s M.O, and namesake, right? He always leaves that weird Celtic symbol somewhere, either on the body, or near the dumping scene – those are called Pack symbols. They usually translate into something, but it’s sort of like a signature – I haven’t been able to decipher what his symbol means, though. So, he might be part of a Werewolf Pack himself, and crediting them for the murders, or he might be trying to frame a particular Pack –"

“What about the beheadings?” Isaac asks curiously, “All the victims are beheaded. If your Werewolf hunter has already cut them in half, isn’t that sort of…and, no pun intended here, but… overkill? Why would the hunter be doing both?”

“Serial killers are known to take trophies,” Stiles replies easily, scribbling something down into his notebook, eyes never leaving the blonde newscaster, “Ivan Milat kept camping gear from his victims, Jerome Brudos kept all his victims’ shoes, Jeffery Dammer kept his victims’ skulls, and even bodies, sometimes – though, he usually kept those in drums and not on display, although he did use some skulls as home decoration. Point being, if it's not about being super sure the victim is not gonna reanimate, this hunter is probably keeping the heads as trophies. I mean, even Ted Bundy kept heads of his victims – it’s not unheard of.”

As Stiles carries on, Isaac begins to look pale, and asks, “how can you talk about this like we’re discussing the weather?”

"Ugh, you are weak, and will not survive the winter," Stiles grumbles, refocusing on his Twitter feed.

When Stiles doesn’t properly respond to Isaac, Scott replies for him, telling Isaac, “Stiles is sorta numb to the gore. He spares me the details, usually, but it’s not for his sake.”

They were the only ones left in this particular wing of the library, so Stiles was playing the news stream at a normal level, and spreading his papers all over the table, his textbooks long forgotten. He looks like the worried scientist at the beginning of every disaster movie that no one believes until the disaster actually strikes, and it’s too late.

“I just can’t believe it! He’s been gone for years, Scott!  _Years_! I’m gonna find this motherfucker, I swear! Ya can’t outrun a Stilinski – we’re frail-boned, but we’re fast little fuckers!” 

Isaac, still fairly new to their social circle, pulls Scott a few feet away until they're out the door of the study room, and waits a few moments to make sure Stiles hasn’t noticed their absences (which he doesn't at all); he  _has_  to ask. He pulls down on the sleeves of his cardigan over his knuckles, and asks Scott quietly, “okay, what… I mean, can you explain this whole Werewolf fixation? I don’t wanna be the douchebag here, but…”

“No, no,” Scott assures, moving them a little more behind a nearby bookcase, “I get it. There aren’t a lot of people that even ask; usually people just write him off as a weirdo. And, I mean… he is, but, I dunno. If I were in his situation, maybe I’d believe it all too.”

“What situation, though? What happened?" 

Scott sighs, and tells Isaac, as if he’s reciting some sort of cautionary tale, “so, Stiles’ dad is a Sheriff in Beacon Hills. His mom was a detective on the force, but a totally different department. When the Beacon Hills Bisector first started dumping bodies in Beacon Hills, she was put on the task force overseeing the case - or, at least, the parts of the case that fell into Beacon Hills' jurisdiction, which was a whole convoluted thing. Point is, she was on the case for months. After victim number six, though… well, no one is really sure what happened. All we know is that there was a clear morning in August, Mrs. Stilinski was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, and obviously saw something, or someone, she wasn’t meant to see. Whoever killed her shot her through the head, execution style, and left her body there; no one found her for hours.” 

“Holy shit,” Isaac breathes out, touching at his neck uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees solemnly, “Stiles was convinced she’d found the Beacon Hills Bisector, like she’d cornered them, caught them red-handed, or something, and they’d killed her, and that he, and his father, and grandmother, had been warned before it happened.”

“Warned? Like –"

“Like through supernatural channels.”

Caught clearly off-guard by that, Isaac quirks a brow, and Scott expounds, “Stiles always had a window seat in school, even though he’d always get distracted. His ADHD was way worse back then. But he got too restless if he couldn’t look outside every few minutes, and the teachers preferred him distracted over acting out. And, at around ten in the morning that day, a bird flew into the window right next to him.”

“And what, it quoth'd something at him?” Isaac scoffs.

“No, dude, it died.”

They exchange a meaningful look, and Scott continues, “it flew  _into_ the window. The window was closed, and not clean enough to look open. It killed itself.”

Isaac is clearly alarmed by this information, but he interjects, “well, that’s happened before. Birds do that, right? When they're sick, or something? That’s not… I mean –"

“That wasn’t the only one,” Scott interrupts, “Three more birds killed themselves against the same window – one after another, like it was orchestrated. Stiles got so upset, he started hyperventilating, and had to go to the nurse. He said he heard a thump against the nurse’s window while he was there, but didn’t look because he _knew_ it was another bird. Then, when his dad came to pick him up, they went home to find three more dead birds on their porch, all black birds – they’d flown right into the front door. And even that wasn’t enough to freak out Stiles’ dad until Stiles’ grandma called and – being a religious lady, she sort of thought the ends of time were coming, or something – and she said that two black birds had killed themselves against her kitchen window.”

Isaac’s eyes widen, and Scott drops his gaze for a quick second, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles, then looking back at Isaac.

“Ten birds in all. Ten birds all at ten a.m. – which was eventually the estimated time of his mom’s death.”

Isaac stays quiet for a long beat, looks down at the ground, then to Stiles’ hunched back. He continues to stare at Stiles’ high, rounded shoulders as he admits, “okay. Okay, that’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees heartily, “That’s when he started believing in the paranormal. He kept telling his dad they were ‘messenger birds,’ trying to warn them about his mom. Everyone was so upset… they either didn’t hear him, or didn’t want to hear him. Whatever happened, no one else took an interest in the birds except him. And, well, you’ve gotten to know Stiles well enough now – you know how he starts digging on the internet, and gets sucked down a black hole of information.”

Isaac smirks a little, and nods.

“The same thing happened then – he was looking up paranormal experiences with birds, and found a bunch of stories just like his. He followed link, after link, after link, and researched for months until he landed on Werewolves. He tried fitting Vampires to the killer, Fae, Spirits, Ghosts, Ghouls, Faeries, Demons – but then he found this author that goes by Dr. D. He writes all about Werewolves, as if they’re real. Talks about what can kill and heal them, how they operate, how Packs work, their powers, and junk. Stiles started seeing a bunch of patterns between the information in Dr. D’s books, and the Bisector’s M.O, and he’s been pretty convinced ever since that the serial killings have  _something_  do with Werewolves. He’s just not totally sure what.”

“Wow,” Isaac states quietly, “I mean… it’s still crazy talk, but… I guess I can see how someone could get fixated.”

“Yeah,” Scott repeats.

They’re quiet for a few long moments, and then Scott says shyly, “uhm, your hair looks really nice today, by the way."

Isaac’s touches absently at his curls, then smiles sweetly, and replies, “thanks, Scott.”

“SCOTT. SOMETHING WEIRD HAPPENED. WEIRDER THAN NORMAL. COME HERE RIGHT NOW, I NEED WITNESSES," they both hear Stiles shout.

Both Isaac and Scott jump at first, and then laugh at themselves. Scott leads the way back to Stiles, and gives Isaac a little wink – he means it to read ‘hey, keep all that information I gave you to yourself,’ and ‘you and I are in the know,’ but Isaac picks up on a couple other readings too.

And if Isaac listens a little more closely to what Stiles is theorizing, it’s not because he’s beginning to _believe_ or anything. He certainly feels something about Stiles’ past, but it’s not belief.

"What weird thing happened?" Scott asks as they reenter the room.

"Okay, so, I was arguing with this ass-hat on Twitter, right? And I tweeted about the lack of decomposition thing -"

"Dude!" Scott scolds immediately, wide-eyed, "You're not supposed to _know_ that information -"

"I know, I know!" Stiles intercepts, flailing his hands around, "I know, okay? I just got all pissed off, and this guy was saying there's no evidence that the victims were supernatural, and I had to say it, I had to -"

"You didn't _have_ to, Stiles - that was confidential information, dude," Scott tells him warningly, "You could get in serious trouble for publicizing that."

"I know, but I won't, because the _Weird Thing_ happened!" Stiles hisses, clutching his phone to his chest, "My tweet was up for something like thirty seconds - maybe less than - and then my entire account was deleted."

" _What_?" Isaac asks.

"Right?" Stiles responds, a fire lit in him, looking back and forth between Scott and Isaac, "My _entire_ account. I can't even access Twitter anymore, the whole app is gone, but it gets fucking _weirder_ \- my account is deleted, the app deletes itself, and then _my location_ got turned on. By itself! I keep trying to turn it off, but it just keeps turning itself back on!"  

"Have you tried turning your phone off, and on again?" Scott asks blandly. 

For a brief moment, Stiles actually looks dumbfounded. 

"Well... no, but that doesn't explain the Twitter thing -"

"Okay, I hear you, but you gotta hear me out okay?" Scott asks kindly, "You trust me, right?"

"Obviously," Stiles huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like a petulant child.

"Okay, so, I love you, dude, but sometimes, when this Bisector stuff comes up, you get kinda paranoid, kind of excitable, and a simple hacking, followed by an iPhone being its stupid self can appear like a conspiracy to you. I'm sure this is all explainable. We should check your settings, see if you have a software update available that effects your location and WiFi settings or something, restart your phone regardless, and also, maybe, shut down the news streams for the night. Maybe we can agree that you got your fill for the night? Pick up on this blazing trail tomorrow? During Normal People Hours?"

The pout makes it very apparent that Stiles would prefer that everyone simply join him in his paranoid hyperactivity rather than rationalize his experience, but he nods, sighs, and mumbles, "alright."

Unbelieving that Stiles would could be so calmed by Scott, so immediately (and reasoned with so quickly), Isaac watches in wonderment as Scott calmly helps Stiles fight very ingrained habits, shuts down the news channels, helps him pack up his books, put his notes into some semblance of order, and he somehow gets them all out of the library before midnight. Isaac admires how close Scott is to Stiles, and he wonders if Stiles handles Scott equally as well when Scott isn't quite himself, or is somehow hurting himself.

He wants to better know Stiles, but Stiles hasn't been all too warm toward him since he made friends with Scott; Isaac also happens to know that Stiles doesn't have a ton of friends outside Scott. He hangs out with Kira sometimes, but Isaac doesn't know much about her either. He understands Stiles' quick judgements of him to be protective in nature. He isn't malicious, or anything, he's probably just territorial about his childhood friend. Still, Isaac would like to better know him eventually.

As they're walking out of the library, into the courtyard, Scott whispers something to Stiles that Isaac doesn't catch, to which Stiles smirks, and says lowly, "no, man, I'm good - go ahead. Tell me how it goes."

Scott grins at him, gives him a side-long hug, and then jogs to Isaac's side, smiling sweetly; "hey, uh - you wanna grab a midnight snack with me? I was gonna hit up Burger King."

Blushing, Isaac tucks a stray curl away, smiles, and replies, "yeah, I'm down. Is Stiles coming?"

"No - he's probably gonna head back to his campus apartment, stay up til the wee hours getting paranoid. He told me he wouldn't, but he will. He'll be too tired in the morning from his late night of obsessing to be too crazed, though, so it should be manageable."

"I see," Isaac chuckles, "Alright. Sure - let's go."

Politely, Isaac says goodnight to Stiles, and only gets slightly flustered at the smarmy look Stiles gives back to him when parting ways. Scott and Isaac leave just as Stiles' phone is rebooting (he did have updates available), and so are long gone by the time it's back online.

Stiles has his canvas bag crossing his torso, and he's eager to look at the feeds on all his social media that he's missed in the half hour he's been parted from it, but when he logs into his phone, his phone looks as though the factory settings have been put back into place, and all his information is lost - even his Contacts. He stops walking, glaring down at his phone, cursing to himself about how he's going to set all of Apple Support on fire in the morning, then turning it back to the locked screen - but then a delayed message appears on his phone.

 

**UBER                        2m ago**                                                                                                                    

**Message from UNIDENTIFIED**

_Your driver is arriving soon in a black BMW M3 (- - - - - - -)._

_After arriving, they'll wait 2 minutes before charges begin for their time._

 

The message must have come in while his phone was still turning back on. Such a mysterious message would be unnerving to any person, no matter what, Stiles thinks, but what is even more disconcerting about this text is that he has never had the Uber app. There is no reason for him to receive such a message, and there never has been.

His stomach drops as his phone vibrates with a new message.

 

**UBER                             now**

**Message from UNIDENTIFIED**

_Your driver has arrived._

 

Stiles looks around, and coming down the poorly lit street is a matte black car. He wouldn't know a thing about car models, and he doesn't pretend to, but there's no way he'd know it was a BMW, as it has no plates, and no insignias on it. The windows are tinted entirely black, as well. Not a hint of chrome or metal anywhere, not even a driver is visible.

It parks on the other side of the street, near a fluorescent street lamp, the lights stay on, but the car doesn't move. 

Neither does Stiles.

He stares at the car, holding his phone aloft, his instincts telling him to stay put, or run in the other direction, and his curiosity begging him to step forward, and cross the road.

His phone buzzes again.

 

**UBER                              now**

**Message from UNIDENTIFIED**

_Get in the car, Stiles._

 

His heart starts pumping wildly, he feels a cold sweat building on his neck, and he knows he should run, but he can't.

He fights the urge for maybe a minute, but then his right foot turns his body without his conscious effort, he faces the opposite side of the street, moves forward again, and soon he's off the sidewalk, just a few feet closer to this demon-car. Trepidation makes his movements slow and rigid, but eventually, he's standing in the dark of the street, his hand on the car-door handle, hesitating.

His fingers are twitching, and shaking. 

He wonders if this is possibly a dream.

He looks up and down the road, but there's no one around. Not a soul in sight.

_No witnesses._

For Stiles, all of his inner-sirens are whirring out of control. His information has been stolen from his phone, his identity is very likely stolen, or at least compromised, an unmarked, perhaps unregistered car has pulled up for him, and if this is an abduction, there will not only be no witnesses, but even if there were, there would be no way to identify who abducted him.

"Wh-who are you?"

The car offers no answer, and the black window only shows him his own reflection. 

He looks up, at the street lamp - and there, at the top, an impressively big black bird is settled, and watching him, and he knows what his decision is.

For one of his undergraduate classes, Stiles read _The Final Leap_ , by John Bateson; a study of suicides on the Golden Gate Bridge. More than anything, it was an intensive, persuasive essay on why a suicide barrier is necessary for the bridge, but it was the interviews with people who survived their jumps that stuck with Stiles more than anything. He remembers, in particular, someone saying that rather than stepping over the short barrier, onto the ledge beyond it, that they catapulted themselves over the safety rail entirely, because they didn't want to hesitate when it came time to jump. He's always been the macabre sort; he admired that way of thinking, no matter what dark ends it lead to. 

He thinks to himself that his palm hovering over the door handle is quite the same; he doesn't know that he'll survive getting in the car, but he has to know, even if all he knows before it all goes black is that he regrets what he's done.

With how his organs squirm, and his heart thunders, he may as well be falling 230ft at 75mph; he catapults. He pulls on the handle, seats himself without a glance back or forward, and shuts the door behind him.

The car is dark inside, but there is certainly someone next to him in the backseat. 

Before he can get a word out, a bag is thrown over his head, and the car lurches into motion.


	2. Droplets

* * *

" _He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you_." - **Friedrich Nietzsche**

* * *

  **Song for this Chapter:**  “ _The Angry River_ ,” by The Hat ft. Father John Misty & S.I. Istwa

* * *

 

 

The car ride is rather smooth for how fast Stiles can tell they're going; he tries to keep track of what turns they make, to recall an internal map later if he survives this encounter, but he loses his stream of thought, and quickly his sense of direction, growing ever more nauseous from his inability to see where he is going so quickly.

The interior of the car is leather, very fine leather, meaning he's slipping around a bit, but a strong grip on his arm is keeping him from falling strangely to the floor of the car, and most likely also keeping a grip on him so that he doesn't open the door, and try to roll out. He doesn't intend to put up a fight, though. If professionals wanted him dead, he'd be dead already - that he's alive means he'll be alive a while longer yet. He has something someone must want, if he's alive when anyone else would be dead in this scenario, and seeing as Stiles didn't inherit a cursed amulet from his mother, or Sumerian clay tablets from his grandmother, and he has no physical or fiscal leverage, they must want information.

The impulse to start spitting questions rapid fire is a difficult one to subdue. He manages, but it's a struggle.

In the meantime, he touches everything he can reach inconspicuously, thinking that, if nothing else, he'll leave evidence he was in this car - he'll leave evidence everywhere his stalkers take him; fingerprints, hair, saliva, blood - whatever he can get, wherever he can get it. He'll leave a trail to his murder site if that's where they're headed.

He can't tell how long they're in the car for - maybe something like forty minutes - but his ears pop at some point too, so he's rather sure they were underwater, in a tunnel he knows nothing about, somewhere along the journey. When the car does finally stop, he's manhandled out of the car, across a road, up some stairs, into a building, an elevator, a room, then into a chair, where his ankles and wrists get strapped down.

He says nothing the whole while, though he couldn't explain why. By all means, he should have been screaming bloody murder from the moment his phone started acting up, but he's not inclined to scream in terror. He doesn't feel fear so much anymore. He feels resolute. He feels angry. Adrenaline is pumping through his body, making him feel invincible, even as the most rational parts of himself keep warning him to cool off his hot head, before he gets himself killed.

"Take the bag off."

Without more warning than that, the bag is stripped off his head from behind, and Stiles' eyes fail to adjust to the dim lighting; what he can see is that he's being held in a very modern, minimalist room. There are no windows, as far as he can tell, everything is in blue-leaning shades of grey, including something shaped like a dresser drawer not too far to the left of him. He can tell two people are leaning against it. There's more furniture in the room, and there are other people in the room, but they are all beyond his ready sight; there's a white light just above him, shadowing everyone and everything else, and there are still colored spots in his vision from the bag being torn off. There are seven people-shaped shadows in all, though, from what Stiles sees.

That is, until one steps into the light.

He's a well-groomed man, bearded, maybe pushing fifty, his glasses are the kind that shift in light, into sunglasses, and are keeping his eyes concealed. His suit is black, his shirt is a dark grey, and his tie is black as well. His black dress pants seem freshly pressed, and his shined shoes are blinding. His designer watch has a shining glare on it from the above light, too.

“Jesus – what _are_ you guys, Men in Black? Like Muggle-versions of Unspeakables? Am I in the Department of Mysteries? You're definitely not cops, you can’t even be normal feds, cause those cars are way too nice – low level feds don’t get a budget that allows for leather interior abduction vehicles. No plates, but no lights in them either, that I could see from the two seconds you gave me to get my bearings, so you don’t patrol. Are you like super high up on the totem pole of power, or something? You guys part of the team that like, stole all the street footage from nine-eleven?”

“Shut up. How do you know about the bodies?”

Loving that he's already bothered his interrogator, Stiles smirks, and asks obtusely, “how do I know what about which bodies?”

The man grimaces, hands tucked in his pant pockets, and specifies, "the Bisector's victims."

"Well," Stiles starts vaguely, "There are several of those, to my knowledge, and most of which I can say with absolute certainty are not among my possessions, but I'm pretty sure those bodies are super dead - as an aspiring death investigator, that is my most professional opinion. Was that the answer you were looking for?"

“You _know_ what I'm asking about," the interrogator insists.

"I haven't the faintest, truly," Stiles tells him with a very obviously false tone of astonishment, "Other than being very dead, what could a relatively harmless grad student know about the Bisector's victims?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out here, asshole."

"Now, that's no way to speak to a hostage."

"Cut the crap! How do you know that the Bisector’s victims aren’t decomposing?”

Bummed that his interrogator is cutting straight to the point, Stiles considers fabricating a story about how he relied on his genius, and intuition, and had a gut-instinct about the state of the bodies, or that he took a wild guess, a shot in the dark, but he quickly decides against lying. He's captured, already, and likely will be dead before sunrise. He doesn't think there's much left to lose.

Rather than spinning a tale, he leans forward, tilts his head up, and says simply and honestly, “I broke into the Sheriff’s office, stole copies of all the files on the Bisector case, and kept it for my own investigation.”

There is a beat of silence, and then the interrogator asks exactly what Stiles hoped he would; “you’re just going to willingly admit you’ve committed felonies?”

With a dramatic eye-roll, Stiles scoffs, and explains, “first of all, that would easily get knocked down to a misdemeanor, it was a nonviolent theft having to do with a cold case – no one gives big enough a shit to charge me with hard time for copying a fuckin’ key card, and using it to obtain papers, which I left the originals of. And, also – yeah, I would willingly admit to that, because you can’t prove shit.”

His interrogator looks displeased, his jaw stiffening when he asks, “yeah, smart-ass? And how in the Hell do you figure that?”

 _My time to shine_ , Stiles thinks to himself viciously, adrenaline and fury rising all the more.

“Okay, so, you haven’t given your identity, explained why or where I’m being detained, you haven’t read me any rights, you haven’t even announced the date or time of detainment to questioning for documentation’s sake – which means that, obviously, no tapes are rolling. Seeing as you’re all so fuckin’ shocked at my ability to copy a single key card to get into my local Sheriff’s office, I’m gonna make an educated guess here, and assume that none of you are video-doctoring geniuses that plan on releasing falsified footage of my non-arrest here, so, yeah. You got nothing on me. And even if you did doctor shit, record my voice, this entire conversation, you have no evidence that I’ve committed any serious crime, and I know that for a fact. If you did, this conversation would’ve been over before it began, I’d have a lawyer on the phone, and we’d be discussing how not only was I bullied into giving a false confession, but I’m an attention-seeking crime fanatic, whose unreliable, unsubstantiated confession was obtained illegally. You wouldn’t make it one step toward a courthouse before someone threw out your entire case against me. So bite me, Big Brother.”

The interrogator's expression grows darker, angrier, and he asks sarcastically, "you think this is some kind of fucking game?"

Stiles' fury rockets out of control, and he curls his upper lip in reproach, snarling, "you know what? Yeah. It's a fucking game. It's a fucking game to me, Deep Throat, and you're pissed cause I'm winning at it, finally. That's all this is, and you'd like me to be scared, and you're pissed that I'm not - I have information I'm not supposed to, I'm onto something big, not shy about publicizing it, and you'd like to shut me up before it spirals out of your control. Well, good luck with that. The only way you'll shut me up is killing me, which I'm sure is part of your Bond-villain-type plan, anyway, but it's not just a game because I'm winning. It's been a game since my mother was murdered - cause that's when you all drew sides, isn't it?"

His interrogator doesn't answer, so Stiles continues to rage, unchecked.

"You all decided the kid wasn't worth listening to, the kid wouldn't figure it out - what did he know, right? What could he fuckin' offer, right? Well, now you want information from _me_? When I pled with the police for just the _autopsy_ report on my mother, they gave me _nothing_! When I tried to _volunteer_  at the Sheriff's office, they _rejected_ my application! When I went to the coroner, he was under strict instruction to not disclose information to her _next of kin_! When I wanted answers, when I _needed_ answers, none of you fuckers gave them to me, cause you were all on the other side of the board, playing with the Big Boys. So, you wanna know how I deciphered what the autopsies meant? You wanna know how I know for a fact my mother's murder is connected to the Bisector? How about you go _fuck yourself_. How's that for an answer? When I asked, that's the answer I got, and if you think I'm about to cooperate with you phone-hacking dipshits that let my mother's case turn cold, knowing how badly I wanted to help, I highly recommend holding your breath. I can't imagine you even have social security numbers, I doubt you'll be missed." 

By the close of his tangent, Stiles is short of breath and teary-eyed. His frustration has mounted to an unprecedented height, he doesn't know where he is, or generally why he's there, he's pretty sure he's going to die, and all he can feel is pissed off about it. 

"I wanted to help my mom," Stiles tells him more gently, "I'm smart. I'm a quick study - I'm good at this stuff, and I've always been good at this stuff. Yeah, it's a game, and I'm good at playing the game - even though none of _you_ were on _my_ team. I was the only one on my team. All I wanted was information. I wanted answers. And that's why I got in your unmarked car - that's why I didn't struggle, that's why I'm not scared of you. I'm ready to _die_ for answers. At least that way, if nothing else, I'll get to be with her again. So, give me one good reason why I should explain _shit_ to you."

Silence reigns for a good while, but then a low voice behind and to the right of Stiles speaks up.

"Because _I_ want your help."

Flabbergasted, Stiles turns his head to the right, and the shadow nears him; his interrogator seems surprised as well.

Another man steps into the light; his skin is smooth, tanner, younger, his hair is dark black with blue undertones - like a raven's feathers - and his eyes are eerily beautiful. His collared shirt is white, rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned at the very top; Stiles makes out the shape of dog-tags beneath his exposed undershirt. 

"Who are _you_?" Stiles asks, not unkindly.

"My name is Derek Hale."

The room erupts in noise - worried noise, and Stiles' interrogator throws his arms in the air, turning his back to Derek in frustration, muttering something about 'Derek doing whatever the Hell he wants, so what's the point of any of this.' Apparently, Derek has given Stiles a real identity, and he was not expected, nor supposed to. Stiles would usually think this is some well-constructed Good-Cop-Bad-Cop routine, but Stiles happens to know that name.

"Wait... Derek Hale," Stiles murmurs, trying to remember why he knows the name 'Hale,' "Wait - wait... did you - are you Derek Hale from Beacon Hills? The sole survivor of that family massacre?"

Derek crouches so that he's at eye-level with Stiles, and Stiles can see the finer details of his face; his cheekbones are high, defined, his lashes are dark, long, and thick, his jaw is strong and covered in five o'clock shadow, and his irises are at least four different colors all twisted together. He's very handsome.

"I know what it's like - the police doing fuck-all, the case going cold before anyone's willing to help. Willing to die for answers. For justice. That's my good reason. I'll help you, if you help me."

Stiles' brows pinch, "I - I don't get it. I thought you were like, lost to the foster system or something? Who are you guys? What is this? If you're not FBI or something... why _me_? Why would you want _my_ help, in particular?"

"Because we're beasts. B-E-A-S-T-S; Branch Enforcement and Assessment of Supernatural Threats Squad."

Laughing in an octave much higher than what is normal for him, Stiles absurdly asks, " _Supernatural Threats_ Squad? For real? And you're not all permanently stationed at Area 51? What could _I_ have done that would warrant... wait - are you -"

Just as Stiles begins to ask, just as the hopeful idea begins to bubble to the surface of Stiles' mind, Derek flashes red irises at him, and Stiles leans in further in his chair, closer to Derek, pulling on his restraints, wanting nothing more than to get a better look.

"I'm an Alpha Werewolf," Derek says in a tone that implies he is telling Stiles something Stiles already knew, "The man you insulted is our Director - Chris Argent, human, but worth fearing. You'd do better to show him a little more respect. If you want to know more, then you help us. And we help you, Stiles."

Still enchanted by Derek's glowing eyes, Stiles mutters dreamily, simply to see what will happen, "what if I say no?"

When Derek smirks, elongated canines show, and Stiles jumps in excitement at them, his heart going a mile a minute, his mouth agape. 

"You won't."

A beat is all it takes, a single beat, and then Stiles is nodding fervently, agreeing to do most anything, pleading with them to take the restraints off.

Which Derek does - with claws sharp enough to scratch up bone, he cuts the restraints off Stiles, and comments, "you're smart enough to know you can't share what you learn here. Verbally, publicly, or anyway, in any form. There will be severe consequences to that sort of shit. Got it?"

"Yeah - I - is this, are these people - are they your... your _Pack_?"

As the last restraints fall away, and Stiles is able to stand, the rest of the lights come on in the room, and Stiles sees the faces of his captors.

They all look normal to Stiles, albeit oddly attractive. No one looks particularly menacing, or dangerous, though.

Then again, in Dr. D's book _Among Us: The Supernatural's Chameleon Act_ , he does explain that 'the Shift,' exaggerates beauty; natural born Werewolves are already very pretty people, which has to do with old, evolutionary hunting methods, dispelling suspicion, and making themselves more likable to a community so as not to be ostracized. People who get 'the Bite,' and experience 'the Shift,' have their own beauty exaggerated for the same reasons; it helps them appear less threatening, and even approachable, or at least well-liked. Less likely to be bullied, isolated, or suspected of ugly, depraved crimes.

Being pretty goes a long way.

"Yes," Derek answers; he gestures at the two people nearest the dresser, and says, "That's Boyd, and Erica. They're my Betas."

They flash luminescent, gold eyes at Stiles to prove their status, and his heart worms around in his chest cavity excitedly; his eyes rove with Derek's hand as he gestures to another spot in the room. Behind a matte black Macbook, there's another person, flanked by two more.

"In the middle there is Danny; he's the phone-hacking dipshit you were referring to. He's human, and can take you off the grid entirely, or put you in the system as a convicted felon, he can ruin your life with a few lines of code - I'd not call him a dipshit again, if I were you. To his right is Jackson - he's a Kanima, and Jackson's Keeper is Lydia, to Danny's left. She's a Banshee, and a powerful magick user. That's my Pack."

It's beyond his control anyway, but still, Stiles doesn't mean for it to happen; quite against his will, his eyes well up with tears, and his throat gets tight and warm. He looks at them all in turns, stunned, _vindicated_ , looking at them with proper amazement and awe, watching their expressions soften between hesitation, confusion, and possibly endearment, as the feeling of relief fills him up.

"Good to know you're not crazy, after all these years, huh?" Danny asks with a friendly smile.

Laughing, Stiles wipes a tear away from under his right eye, and answers, "yeah - wow. Yeah. Really good."

"Your blog is interesting," Danny mentions, "Full of really good theories, and thought pieces - you're well-read on Werewolves, and most of your information is accurate. Sorry about the Twitter thing. If it's any consolation, I hacked the guy who you were arguing with too, and I do not plan on returning his information to him."

"That does make me feel a little better," Stiles tells Danny, rubbing at his sore wrists, still looking around at everyone, "So - why did my tweet, uh... result in my kidnapping? Is there a 'zero chill,' policy around here, or did I strike a nerve?"

"Well, no one is supposed to know about the bodies not decomposing," Danny says conversationally, glancing to Argent briefly before continuing, "You must know that already. It's not something the killer would necessarily know, but you're also pretty well educated on the occult. Particularly Werewolves - you drew the right conclusions. Their metabolisms, and chromosomal structures don't allow for normal, human decomposing. You've been on our radar for a while. We didn't suspect you of the crimes, or anything, but we gotta check all avenues, you know? You knew way more accurate information than a normal citizen should, and we couldn't find you connected to any Werewolf Packs, which meant you obtained all the information independently. We had to know how, and more importantly, why."

"Huh," Stiles huffs, "I'd think the 'how,' is more important."

"Motive is everything," Derek tells him, drawing Stiles' eyes to him again, "Anyone can do anything, if they've got the nerve, and the means to. _Why_ anyone does anything is more important than how they accomplish it. Motivation is what gets the deed done. The rest is background noise."

"Noted, Mr. Holmes."

An unimpressed, bold eyebrow quirks at him, and Stiles is reminded of Spock, but says nothing about it - instead, he points to Danny, and interviews Derek, "so, is Danny your Emissary?" 

A couple of the people in the room laugh, though Derek still looks deeply unhappy; Stiles finds his answer in Director Argent's expression, which is both humored, but paternal.

"No, Derek has chosen not to have an Emissary," Director Argent answers, although he keeps his eyes firmly on Derek the entire time, and his tone says all it needs to about how Argent feels about the decision.

"I've said it a thousand times - I don't need one," Derek inserts, sounding agitated.

"But, every Alpha needs an Emissary, right? That point was definitely highlighted in _Pack Dynamics; Lycanthropic Hierarchies_ \- isn't it part of the Pack structure?" Stiles asks; this brings on more noise from the group, and seems to bother Derek all the more.

"Every Alpha _does_ need an Emissary, Stiles, you're right," Argent tells him, "Derek's hubris will punish him eventually."

"A lot of good an Emissary was when my family was slaughtered," Derek growls, eyes flashing red - the room quiets, "I heal fine on my own. I don't need potions or spells to help it along, and I don't need a sidekick, or caretaker. And if your sister taught me anything," Derek adds, pointing an accusatory finger at Argent, "it's that if my time is up, then it's up, and an Emissary can't do shit about it. So, you wanna argue more about this, or get off my back?"

Stiles definitely does not understand the dynamic between Argent and Derek yet, although some theories are already spreading in his head like a spider's web - rather than investigate that, though, he throws a hitchhiker thumb at Derek, and says to Derek's Betas, "so, he seems like a barrel of laughs."

Erica smiles, but seems too scared to laugh outright, and Boyd gives him a disapproving stare.

"He's hungry," Lydia announces.

Stiles goes to ask who it is that's hungry, but then his stomach makes a loud, embarrassing noise, and the tension in the room is officially broken.

She brushes back some strawberry blonde hair, and suggests, as though he were a stray animal they happened upon, "we should feed him."

Everyone looks to Derek, as though asking for permission; even Argent. And, even Stiles.

"Yeah," Derek says to Lydia, "Show him the kitchen."

"So - wait - that's _it_?" Jackson asks, announcing himself for the first time, "You're okay with taking him in?"

"Taking whom'st where?" Stiles asks nervously.

Moving away from Danny and Jackson, Lydia approaches Stiles, heels clicking on the floor, and when she's close enough, linking arms with him, as though they've been friends for ages. She smiles placatingly at him, and offers, "come to the kitchen, and I'll explain everything."

 

* * *

 

The compound is impressive, to say the least. They are underground, though Stiles couldn't dream of telling where, and it's enormous, full of stainless steel, granite, white, grey, and black appliances, and very minimalist, modern design. Every room looks like an altered Apple Store, clean and sleek. There are signs of human life, however; jackets thrown on the backs of chairs, shoes on the mat in the doorway, books laid out on a cocktail table in what Stiles is thinking is a living room space, dishes in the sink, chargers sitting in outlets.

Lydia leads him out of what seems to have been a spare office space, and takes him down a corridor, into the kitchen, which is an open concept, attached to the living room space. In the bright light of the kitchen, Stiles forgets what time of night it is. He barely remembers it's nighttime at all, in fact. He wonders if they all have damaged circadian rhythms from working underground. He's about to ask, when Lydia speaks.

"How does a grilled cheese sound?"

" _Great_ , actually," Stiles answers, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

She starts gathering butter, pan, bread, and cheese, then starts in again, "you'll have to excuse Derek and Chris. They have a complicated relationship."

"Yeah, they didn't strike me as a 'strictly coworkers,' type team."

"No - Derek is Chris's adopted son."

"What?"

"Yeah," Lydia tells him, looking over her slim shoulder to him, "that's a story for another day. Probably one Derek wouldn't want me telling in his place, either. Ask me some of the other questions you have. I can tell you're bursting at the seams."

"Oh God, thank you for noticing," Stiles sighs out, allowing his shoulders to relax, "Can I ask about Jackson and you?"

"Engaged!" Lydia tells him cheerily, flashing a pretty diamond ring at him.

"Oh, congrats! That's super cool, but I more meant, like, how he's a Kanima and stuff..."

"Oh, right," she giggles, "So, when Derek was re-building his Pack, he chose some young people in need; Erica was very sickly, and her life expectancy was low. Her home life was unhappy as well - Derek offered her longevity, health, and freedom. She took the offer. Boyd was on a mission not unlike yours - he had a younger sister he thought died in an accident. Turns out the accident wasn't all too accidental, and he was on his way out of the foster system when Derek found him. Boyd wanted strength, resources, and a chance at revenge - he took Derek's offer. Then Jackson."

She pauses in her story to flip his sandwich over in the pan, and fiddle with her ring, "Jackson had everything. He didn't really need what Derek offered, but he wanted power. It got to his head. Sometimes, a Bite goes wrong -"

"Oh, yeah, I know - I studied all of Dr. D's works. He covered all the ways the Bite and Shift can go wrong in _Supernatural Transmutation: A Study of Trial and Error_. Becoming a Kanima is a pretty serious reaction to the Bite. Dr. D didn't get too much into Kanimas, though. Being a Keeper - that's a proper title?"

"Yeah," Lydia tells him, "It's a bit like being soulmates. You can have a platonic Keeper, of course, but there has to be a spirit-connection, and an unbreakable one. I was powerful before I was his Keeper, though. I've been a Banshee my whole life, though my powers only started showing at around age sixteen."

"And what about the magick that Derek mentioned?"

"I'm a practitioner," she answers easily, "An Emissary would know a lot more about the magick I use, but I mostly use aspecting, channeling, and divination."

"So, you're a psychic?"

"Not entirely," Lydia admits, "More like I'm an open channel that picks up on stray signals. Sometimes it means something, sometimes it doesn't. My intuition isn't always right, but it's usually a reliable guide. I'm more in-tune, psychically, than the average person, I guess."

"That's sick, dude. Uhm - about this whole Emissary business - what's Derek got beef about?"

"Oh, that's a long story too," Lydia says somewhat sadly, presenting Stiles with his midnight snack, "You know what happened to Derek's family, in Beacon Hills, obviously. When his mother's Emissary couldn't help, as most of the family was beyond all help, Derek took it rather personally. He's never forgiven his mother's Emissary for failing them, and refuses one of his own out of spite. No one forces the matter, because it can't be forced. An Emissary is like a Keeper - it requires a soul-bond."

"Yeah," Stiles starts, mouth full, "uh, what happened to Derek's family is still sort of blurry for me, to be honest. I remember the Hale property being neglected, but for some reason the land wasn't seized? I was still young when all that happened in Beacon Hills."

"Well, Derek's family was attacked - you know that much. The Hale Pack was special for a few reasons; his mother, Talia, was one of very, very few recorded Were's that were able to make a full Shift, into a wolf. It seems as though, maybe, Peter, Derek's uncle who also survived the attack, _perhaps_ mercy-killed Talia? His account was never taken, and it's impossible to prove what exactly transpired that day between he and Talia. What happened was a bizarre transformation, though - he made a Shift, but into the stuff of nightmares. Not a natural wolf. Derek, very young, had to take him down, and he has been Alpha of the Hale Pack ever since. His uncle wasn't killed by the take-down. He was subdued, though, and his Alpha power did transfer to Derek, but he fell into a coma, which is why the land wasn't seized; there was, technically, a living owner. He's been in a bed since then, in one of Beacon Hills' long term care facilities - as I understand it, though, he was showing signs of wakefulness as far back as six months ago, and as of two weeks ago, he's been unaccounted for."

"Wait," Stiles begins, swallowing roughly, "Derek's violent uncle is M.I.A with the Bisector loose again?"

"I'd be hard pressed to give a shit if the Bisector did get a hold of Peter."

Stiles turns in his seat to look at Derek, who's leaning his weight against the threshold of the door, arms crossed.

"You're hard pressed to give a shit about anything, Derek," Chris mumbles grumpily, as he passes Derek in the doorway.

Boyd and Erica follow, Danny and Jackson close behind, and soon the kitchen is filled with the entirety of B.E.A.S.T.S.

Chris sighs, takes a look at his fancy watch, and announces, "I'm calling it a night. Boyd, Erica, I need you two on Harman today; Jackson and Lydia - I need you two on the Labatte twins. And, Derek..."

He looks up to Derek from his cufflinks with a sinister type of stare, "I'm putting Stiles and you on Kaminski."

" _What_?" Derek asks, looking highly offended.

"You chose him - you picked up a stray, now you get to take care of it," Chris shrugs, "Don't come whining to me. You made a unilateral decision, and you can bear the consequences of it. You want Stiles' help? You get Stiles' help."

Still very clearly put out, Derek glares at Chris, and grits between his fangs, "and how, exactly, do you expect me to tote around his dumb ass? He gets in unmarked vehicles willingly!"

"That's a totally unfair depiction of my character," Stiles complains, melted strings of cheese sticking to his chin, "There were mitigating factors in regard to that alleged ride-taking."

"The mitigating factor is you having no sense of self-preservation," Derek shoots back, barely looking in Stiles' direction; focusing still on Chris when he adds, "And who was it that pushed me to make 'executive decisions,' every day?"

"Executive - not unilateral," Chris specifies, turning a brow up at Derek; Derek bites his tongue, though it looks like he'd have kept at it if he didn't have an audience.  

This intrusion on their strange dynamic isn't what Stiles minds all too much - he's rather distracted by seeing Director Argent in plain light. He seems oddly familiar, now that Stiles can get a good look at him, but Stiles is sure he's never met the man before.

"Brief him on Kaminski," Chris orders, "I'll touch base with you later today."

"Brief me?" Stiles asks incredulously, swiveling his head around, "Like - a real briefing? Like, being part of the team kind of briefing?"

At this question, Lydia looks pleased, as do Erica and Danny; Boyd seems indifferent, but Jackson looks fed up with him (which can't be a good sign; Stiles only wears people down further during prolonged exposure, so not having a strong start with either Boyd or Jackson has him feeling a touch uneasy).

Chris is smirking, but not at Stiles - he's looking at Derek, and gesticulates in a way that reads, 'go on, answer him.'

Derek rolls his eyes, but begrudgingly tells Stiles, "yes. Stiles - I'd like to invite you to be a consultant for B.E.A.S.T.S on this open case, and to help us in identifying, stopping, and bringing to justice, the serial killer known as the Beacon Hills Bisector. Do you accept my formal invitation, or you want it in writing?"

" _Derek_ ," Chris warns.

"Dude, _yes_ ," Stiles answers emphatically, "I am hella down! Down like Judge Joe Brown! Let's do this!"

Enthusiastically, Stiles sticks his arm out, inviting Derek to approach him and shake his hand. And, despite looking irritated about it, Derek does leave the threshold of the doorway, uncross his arms, and shake Stiles' hand.

Their palms meet, and Derek's hand is mostly soft, but some callouses exist; they're big hands, strong hands, and incredibly warm. Derek's handshake is firm, but gentlemanly. The sensation distracts Stiles for a moment.

"Good," Derek responds, still gripping Stiles' hand, "Your first briefing starts now."


End file.
